The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 26, 1897, Page 20

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1897. WHEN THE JOLLY FRUIT-PICKER IS NOT A-PICKING FRUIT, ) A ,fi%@-\—n_‘@r —) P S\ ol A JOLLY QUARTETTE “Come on, girls; we are going to have a dance.’’ And the girls came. And the boys, too. They fcllowed the one who had invited the m to a little group of tents on the edge of the vin i and in a few minutes the tremblin oid accordion broke upon the Sabbath airand mingled with the hot, quivering sunshine. “‘They’re a bad crowd,”” said aa old man who came out o ent when the invitation to the dance had been given, and stood beside me watch- ing the young people tread their way through a field heavy with the har- vest of Bacchus. *“What’s wrong with them ?’ I asked. ““Go see for yourseif,” te answered, shrugging his shoulders, as he re- turned to the stifling shadows of his tent. 1 peeved 1n a moment later and saw him bowed over a large book, and heard dim mutterings as if he were reaaing to himself. Here, right in the heart of nature, were the same old contrasts of life, The young and the old; the gay and the sad; the light ana the daik. And when 1 looked about me I saw also the rich and the poor and the good and the bad. It was the same old humanity ; unchanged not an iota even though most of them had been transplanted irom the sidéwalks of the city te the vineyards and orchards of the Amador Valle At present the fruit and grape picking season is at its height. There are nearly 3000 people engaged in the industry, most of whom live in tents close to their work. It is well known how these people put in their time during the week. It is work, work, work, from the time the sun peeps over the esstern horizon in the morning until it sinks in the west at the end of the day. But I had come here to see how they put in their time on the day of rest. In the pretty little towns of Pieasanton and Livermore there was no sign of rest. All was bustle and life. The streets of Livermore at noon last Sunday were more crowded than they had been for vears. All the stores were open and an army of clerks was busy attending to customers, Some of the saloons had not closed for days. All of them were crowded, and the clink of glasses so blended with the rattle of poker chips and the hum of voices as tu produce that strange, fascinating sound that draws us , wheezy notes of an %} oy ) Dt QA IR i i ¥ 3 =] 2 22 & L5 3 é—;EE 7 ) ) i n);m TN m ) ) M) ))h A )Sm)m il ) il ) \ e G R intothe excitement, The sight of the crowds in these saloons told a story of dissipation. Italso told a story of prosperitv, for if these men had not been earning money they could not have been spending it. The saloon and the grocery were different s1gns of the same thing, Along the side- walk pas-ed and repassed a singing throng that bumped and jostled each other zood-naturedly. Men, women and children, most of them tearing pundles and all having the re! flush of excitement on their faces, moved here and there like an army of ants. Out of the churclies poured a crowd of worshipers who mingled with the crowd on the streets and became lost in it. The middle of the streets and the edge of the sidewalks were jammed with horses and vehicles. 'Twas really such a scene as might have been wit- nessed during the “boom’’ period of some of our great cities. And here it was repeated simply because fruit was ripe ana Providence had blessed the earth with a hbountiful harvest. “If you want to see the fruit-pickers in camp,” said an old resident to me, “and that’s the way to see them on Sundays, you'd better go out to the vineyards and orchards over there,” and lhe pointed to the south where a spur of the Coast Range cculd be seen through the autumn haz I went, and after along walk over a Lot, dusty road, came to the fruit- pickers in camp. Defore the day was done I had seen and heard a great deal unexpecied. Isaw a number of sights too shecking to describe, a few sad ones and one that was almost tragic. But [ said it was the same old humanity, with its tears and its laughter. “Go see for yourself,” the old man had said before disappearing into his tent. But he saw things from a different point of view than that of the young people who were whiriing through the dance. ““They're a bad crowd,” he had said; but I saw nothing but innocent amusement. A crowd of healthy young people seeking reiaxation after a hard week’s work. And so they danced and danced, even though the sun grew hotter and the air became sultry as the afternoon wore on. “A pretty sight,” I said to a man who was lying the shade of a tree. flat on the ground in “They're a lot o’ fools,” he replied, “to be working like that when they might be resting. To-morrow they will wonder why they aon’t feel more like picking fruit.” The accordion became silent, the dance ceased and the participants began mopping their glowing faces. The boys served the girls with water in tin cups. The great physician now is near, The sympathizing Jesus. Slowly. unmelodiously, aimost sadly, the woras of Moody and Sankey’s old hymn floated on the momentary stillness from a group of tents under aclump of trees a few hundred feet away. As I went in that direction the singers continued their efforts, each note becoming more rasping, colder and inharmonious until the end of the hymn was reached in a confused jumble, all the singers finishing ata different time. “'Let us pray,”’ said an old man with a Bible in his hand, and all the congregation kneeled on the ground. There was fervor in the words of the Lord’s supplication as it ascended heavenward, and it was repeated as if the supplicators were not strangers Lo the words, Within a hundred feet of this group was a emall, rageed tent that stood by itself. At one side of this a woman was washing a man’sclothes. She rubbed and scrubbed on a battered oid board and the steam from the hot suds rolled iu clouds around her, causing the perspiration to flow down her face in streams. +It's warm work,” I said. “IVs always warm work with me,”” she replied, sadly. “How is it you do your washing on Sunday ?" I asked. “If 1 aidn’t do it on Sunday it never would be done. Yon see, I have to work picking all week and look after the children at the same time— and worry about my husband.” “Where is ycur husband *’ “God knows. He's been gone since morning, and the children went with him.” “Doesn’t he work, too?”’ *No; he drinks.” And she sadly went at her washinz again. As I passed along the little path that led to another group of tents I met a man and two small boys. *How are things in town?'’ I asked, as I saw that the man carried a large demijohn with a purple stain around the top that left no doubt as to what the contents were, *‘Have a drink ?"’ he stammered, and almost fell over in his efforts to set his burden down. “Good stuff. Lots more where this came from. O woman’s goin’ to work in the morning.” . Idid not stop to sample his liquor, but as I turned to go I looked back and saw the woman who had been washing the man’s clothes kiss- ing the two little boys, whe had run ahead, leaving their father in the path. And there was a bappy smileon the woman's face. Tents were on all sides in the district into which I now wandered. Good and bad people were side by side. In one tent was a crowd of arunken foreigners singing and trying to dance. Theair in the vicinity fairly recked with the odor of cheap claret. Not fifty feet away was a family camp. The tents were nearly new and a fine wagon ana pair of horses told that the owners were well-to-do. A strong, healthy-looking man was kindling a fire in a camp stove, and a pretty young woman, attired in a white muslin gown, lay swinging in a nammock near by. Three well-dressed children played tag around the tents. *Nice place you have here,” T remarked to the head of the family. “Yes, it's pretty nice; only I wish those people over there were not around. They are a terrible set—drunk nearly all the time, and keep up a racket balf the nignt. But they never say anything to us, 2o we don’t say anything tothem.” ¥ “How do vou like picking fruit?” I asked. “It’s perfectly lovely !"” the woman in the hammock answered. gon’t know what we would do for a vacation if it wasn’'t for this.” “That's right,”’ said the husband. wp “You see, I am an expressman in San Francisco and this is the way we get a change in the summer. We have more than made our expenses so far and it has done ali of us a great deal of zood. I think our little girl has almost doubled her weight since we have been out. Not one of us wants to go home again.” In wandering about from camp to camp [ saw a doz:n families just as happy as these, and hundreds of others who were undoubtedly being benefited by a brief season of picking fruit. But I also saw people who seemed to have become Indians as a result of a few weeks’ contact with nature. Women who had lost ali native modesty and lay around in the most careless attitudes. One woman, who was making her toilet in front of her tent, was so scantily attired as to be startling in appearance. 'L'here were several dozen people within sight of her, but she paid no attention to them, nor they to har. A similar attire in any civilized community would cause an immedate arrest, The evil of the actions of such a woman and in such a place was plainly visible. Youwg eirls, hardly 15 years of age, could be seen walk- ing asbout the camps 12 various stages of undress, seeming to have wholly forgotten propriety. “Whav's the difference?’ what the mother of a 10-year-old girl said when I managed afier considerable talking to ask her why she didn’t put more clothes on the child. When the sun began to deciine and the air to srow a little cooler cer- tain camps that bad been all silint for hours began to wake up. "“We are here for a good time” yelied one girl.who was hangingon to the arm of a young man, “and weare going o have it."” And they did bave it, in Zway. 1 saw this pair ana another pair about an bour later. Al were slightly under the influ- ence of wine, and locked arm in arnm were dancinz down the road. One of the young men waved a bottle .irj the air and made an effort tosinga popular song. The girls were as joilyas could be and seemed bappy, and withal retained a certain amount of mydesty. There were no exhibitions such as some of the women in the camy had made of themselves. “Ratier a jolly quartet,”” I said o a man who was looking at the crowd with a smileon his face. “Yes,” he replied, “I like to see it. Taose girls are just as good as they can pe and are hard werkers. A little fun iike thatis all right.” As it began to zrow dark most of the :amps became silent, except THE HOUSEWIFE'S I\ DAY OF REST. X ,' T S S =) A such as were filled by drunken foreigners. ’Tway at this hour that the tragedy was enacted. Nota tragedy where a human body was made a corpse, but atragedy where a young girl was deprived of all the sweetness of life. They were standing in the shadow of a iree and she was speaking through sobs. “Let’s go home to-morrow, Carl,” ste said. “You know we did wrong t9 go away like we did and make these people think we were married.”’ ““’Twon’t do no good 10 go home,’” replied Carl. “Yes, it will,” she answered, “we can get married.” “Nit,” replied Carl. ere the girl burst into tears and sobbed violently. )h, you make me tired,” seid Carl. *“Shutup.” The sobs continuad and Carl cried, turning away, “Good-by." **Where are yon going?” cried the girl. “To Fresno,” he answered, and ran down the road. The girl attempted to follow, but he was fleet of foot and disappeared in the darkness of the night. “‘Ha, ha!” laughed a coarse voice from a tent near by. time you got left.” The girl then disappeared in a clump of trees. There were several listeners to this conversation, but none attempted to stop the fleeing Carl, And so it really was the same old humanity. The good and the bad would have been just the same in the heart of a great c.ty as in the heart of nature. Men are men and women women, whether they work at a crade or pick fruit. But there is one consolation—the good that I saw greatly overbalanced the bad. WirL SParks. “That’s the SLEERING TN T CRANE Mr. Crane showed an altogether lovely | spirit, a lovable smile and an unlovable mustache, and shook my hand and his queer red wig at the same time after I had fallen up the steps to greet him. “S8o you want to see my cnrios?’ he said. “'Well, look at me, look at me,” and be lzughed lightly and surveyed bis black and white checked suit, white gaiters and patent leathers, with a wicked twinkle. “Now, my room isn’t fixed up a bit— not a bit, as yet. I haven’t had time, you know. We have been so busy renearsing the new play; but you can look at what there is. How do you like my new mirror? invented by s San Francisco man, {05 Great thing.” He got up to explain to me the different evolutions that this particular invention allowed the mirror to make—how to twist it so that you could see vour heels, your head, the back of your neck, etc.— while I tried to calm mysalf. always does beat 10 suffocation when I get mto the back of a theater, no matter whether 1 go to interview the most be- toved of matinee heroes or just to look at some curios And Mr. Crane sat down, and no dcubt was wondering at | the silence, and watched me with a veculiarly quiet litile way that he has. “In New York, Chicago and other ¢ last season I kept my dressing-room dec- orated with all sorts of thihgs. lots of pictures and stood them arotind or hung them on the walls. Then I had odd little bits,” he said finally, *‘ittle Japan- ese creations, quaint pieces of china, some heathen gods, SBouth African relice, and all such things. Now, you see that book there,” and be pointed to a large, bulky volume. *Well, that is my collec- tion of pictures. Began to collect those 1n 1863, and will keep on until my checks are passed in. Got all sorts of people’s pictures there—McCullough and those oid chaps. Most all of them are dead now. My heart | Had | Nearly all the old-timers are gone and I'm | here yet. Pretty lively thougn, ain't 1?7 | He laughed away the taomentary hint | of pathos that had crept in and closed the | book sharp y, but I had caught just a glimpse of the loveliest face I had ever seen, and I wanted to ask aboutit, but | Crane had picked up a quaint but wicked- | looking dagger and was handling it wildly. | *This,”” he began, “was given me—" irst act!” shouted an | voice from beyond the deor. Mr. Crave placed the dagger on the stand and shook his head resignedly. “That means 1'll have to go,” he said. “Now, just do whatever you please and look at everything you can find,” and wav- | ing his hand he left me. unwelcome | | | i Even with Mr. Crane away his person- ality lingered about the set of the chairs, the angle at which the mirror stood, the clothing that covered one side of the wall and the peculiar decorations. Tiere was a book lying upon the siand, very near to the paint and powder and queer brushes and puffs and other accessories that actors are familiar with. Writien across the | front page was the explanatory sentence: | “Received on the occasion of my twenty- | fifth wedding anniversary.” Romance is sweet always, and I shame- | lessly explored further, reading telegrams and notes from the people whose names { have been familiar to us since we have | known enough to notice colored pictures on the side walls. And, oh, there was so much kindly feeling and good nature in words expressed that yon felt the breath of good will and felt at peace with the world. Iread it nearly tbrough, and was just smiling broadly alL a note which read: “My congratulations. You are a brave | little woman to have steod him so long,” when the docr opened. *‘How are you getting along?”’ asked the CURIOS actor. *Find anything? Oh, the book. Some good jokes on me in there,” and he laughed heartily. “See that tin horn over there?’ He motioned toward the further corner of the room, where it hung by a long cord, *‘That's the great- | est pass that ever was used,”’ he laughed. “That horn is the cne that took so many | into the theater. Ibought it, and wouldn't part with it for the world, and never will until we have to part with everything.” “Now, see tbose buckles up there?” he went on. “Some of those belonged to Joe | Jefferson; one or two to Irving and Booth. Then all that rubbish-looking stuff on that corner of the'toble. Weli, those are the programmes. They are worth some- thing.” “Programmes?”’ “Yes,” he said. *My cue will come in a second, so I'll have to talk fast. I have the first programme printed of every new play produced in New York. There are some famous names on those programmes, and see how yellow those under ones are. That's something else I wouldn’t part with.”” “And all these things?” I said, motion- ing to quaint-handled paper-cutters, and queer meerschaums, and bits of glass and other things breakable. *‘Where did you get all these?” “*My trip to Europe,”” he answered con- fidently. “I took one of those two-week- and-a-half trips, you know, and saw everything and bought more. Have these things to remind me of the things I didn’t have time to see the whole of. *'Oh, that’s a great scheme,” he added, ‘‘a great one. Youcap buy those things for one half the price we pay for them in Europe rightat bome in ‘New York, and not have to pay dyty on them either, but, then, it's the association, of course. There’s a whole lot in that.” Then be disappeared and my wander- 1ingeye fell upon a staring, vacant grin- . ning skull. Butit may not have been grinning—it may not havs been doing any of those things which can be character- | ized, but it impressed me so. It snemedi <0 out of place, although for the matter of that so was it. But I grew interested and [ took it from its pedestal and sat down in front of the glass and held 1t there. ihastly it was and yellow, and cracked, too, as though it had been used for some- thing. “Found that, have you?’ said Mr. | Crane, coming back, again warm and tired. | Iputitaway and turned to go. “The skull that Macready used year I after year in Hamlet,” he answerea. “Oc, [ I wouldn’t part with it for anything.” | It wasa shame, though, that the skull | some day. was the last relic that I gazed upon, for Iimsginalion 18 strong sometimes, and, meeting Mr. Hale in the guise of the French Count upon the stairs, I straight- way tried to fancy how he would look MARTHA LANE. Although Blind He Will From the window of a neat little recep- tion-room, in the Institute for the Deaf and Dumb and Blind, I saw him coming up the walk, and seeing him it never occurred to me that he was the person for whom I was weiting, He was following the curves of the winding way, walking briskly, with firm assured step and swinging arms; and al- thouch his hat was pulled down low over hiseyes, T thought that it was done to shade them from the level rays of the sinking sum, for nothing in his walk or his carriage suggested, in the faintest de- gree, tl:e fact that he was sightless. One of the lady teachers met bhim on the veranda, to, so I afterward learned, give him my card and message. Even then Idid not realize that he was other than a visitor or an attendant, for he raised his hat at her approach with the quick courtesy born of innate refirement and gentle breeding, and a moment or two iater turned from her at right angles to enter the house, with no hint in his man- ner of the groving uncertainly which we are accustomed to expect irom those who are terelt of the blessing of sight. As he crossed the tnresnold of the room in which I was, however, the light fell fall on his face, and the closed lids told the story, which is to usfortunate ones whoss eyes are open to all the brightness and beauty of our bright and beautiful world, so burdened with a sorrow which we can pity, but can by no means realize. He came toward me with a cordially extended hand. “I am Thomas Morrison,” he said, in the simply direct way which 1s character- istic of him, “‘and I am glad to meet you.” So this was the blind student who, in spite of the misfortune which has shadowed his existence, has already proved himself to be endowed with ex- ceptional talents, and has planued out his future on lines never before ventured upon by a sightless person, I watched him closely and curiously as he talked, answering my questions mod- estly and yet with a certain self-confidence, which shows that conquering the difficul- ties which he has had 10 encounter in the past has given him a far better idea of his own capabilities than is usually pos- sessed ny yourg men of his age. Living in total darkness as he has for the past thirteeu years there is yet no hint of shadow on his handsome boyish face. Hissmile is ready and bright and his laugh rings out merrily on occaston. Evidently be has svent little time in re- pining over his hard fate; instead, he has bravely apolied himself to making the most of every opportunity which has come to bim, and the future seems 10 himn full of promise. It surprised him that any one should think it strange for him to select physi- cal culture as his life-work. I have ai- ways been especially interested in the natural sciences,” he said, “and asIam pretty much cut off from secientific woik in other directions I believe I can make a success of this. I shall devote myself to gymnastics, not acrobatics, and shall give special attention to parallel, horizontal and vertical bar work and exercises with poles, dumbbells, rings and clubs. The central idea with me is to learn, and aft- Teach Physical Culture erward teach; those things which will de- velop and sirengthen the body harmoni- ously until it reaches a point as near to perfection as it is possible under existing conditions.”” - *‘But how can you teach when you can- not see whether or no your pupils follow your directions correctly ?'” The question was a cruel one, but it was asked impulsively, and only the in- tent of it seemed to touch him. “Ishall teach only inose who wish to learn,” he answered, *‘and they will, of course, try to follow instructions im- piic tly. Besides my specialiy will be the | training of individuals, and the sense of touch will tell me readily if the position of the limbs and the tension of the muscles are correct. And one’s fingers see for one very well when they must.” I glanced at the ‘‘seeing’’ fingers. They are shapely, strong and instinct with vigorous young life to their very tips. be a very unsatisfactory substitute for eyes—at least they would be for me. “I study anatomy by feeling each separate bone until I am familiar with its shape and relative position,” he went on, and then he laughed boyishly at my involuntary shudder. “You would not like that? Probably not, but what we learn in that way we learn thoroughly, and tne study of the buman body is of all things interesting.” : And then he spoke again of his hove of making a Success of his undertaking under Professor Magee’s instruction, and of -his tbankfulness that the university authorities bad decided to admit him, Still I feel pitiuliy sure that they must “Of course, it is an experiment as yet,” he said. *Icannot be sure of my fitness until I have ziven myself and the work a trial. But it seems to me tkat when one feels so strongly drawn to a particular line of study 1t must be possible to suc- ceed therein. Anyway, I shall do my best.” The firm closing of the hitherto smiling lips, and the resolute set of the sturdily squarc young shoulders, convey the idea that Thomas Morrison's ‘“‘best” will be something really worth while. 1t will be the outcome of a conrage and determina- tion and a faith in himself which have come to him through years of brave struggle against circumstance—a struggle which has left behind it nothing of bitter ness, only pleasant and encouraging memories of difficulties overcome. The clanging of the dinper-bell inter- rupted us and 1 rose to go. Having eyes to see with I hesitated on the threshold, for it was not a straight way to the door and the place was strance 1o me. *I will show you the way out,” said my blind host, and he walked before me to the entrance and opened the door. ‘1 walk tothe university and back alone every day,” he said at parting. *It is not difficult to go about after I have been over the ground once. The first lesson that I have had to learn, and the foundation of all others, is to depend as far as may be in all things upon myselt alone. .I could not bear to be a burden and a drag on any one.” Surely with such a spirit even a blind boy will find life well worth the living. FLORENCE MATHESON,